


Killing your darling

by Mazen



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Phantom of the Opera - Lloyd Webber
Genre: Accidental Death, Brutal death, F/M, Halloween phic, Horror, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-29
Updated: 2019-10-29
Packaged: 2020-12-17 12:09:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,639
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21054167
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mazen/pseuds/Mazen
Summary: When Erik decides to keep Christine underground, things don't go as he expected.Written for A-partofthenarrative's 13 Nights of Halloween.





	Killing your darling

Erik was not a patient man - a fact obvious as he ignored Christine's accusing words while tears of devastation streamed down her cheeks. She was pale; the stage makeup had been smeared and only the kohl around her eyes were left, though it had run and was now smudged under her eyes. The only real colors left on her beautiful face were her red eyes and the pinkness of her sweet, full lips, which at the moment were set in a desperate, disapproving line. 

What had she last said? It was finally quiet in his lair. Both Christine and the boy had spoken their piece and yet, she hadn't made a choice. His hands trembled - his control long gone - as he thirsted for action. The boy's neck was lined with a streak of blood, the Punjab Lasso digging deeper into his delicate skin, and the more he struggled, the more the rope would tighten. It was a joy to see the handsome face grow bloated and slightly purple, blue eyes bloodshot, as he gasped for the last of his pathetic, advantageous life.

Christine's big chestnut eyes bore into him, making him feel uncomfortable. It was she who hadn't given an answer; really, it should be him laying the blame on her. Hadn't she abandoned him? Shunned him after seeing his wretched face? Run to the pretty Vicomte and accepted his proposal without a second thought to the one who'd dedicated his work to her! No, it was time for her to choose once and for all. "You try my patience," he hissed at her pleading eyes as he marched towards her. She stumbled backwards and landed in a puddle of white lace and silk on the ground before he reached her with his palms open - ready to wrap around her pale throat.

"Make your choice!" He turned away from her soulful eyes, trying to smother the itch to force her hand. Nothing was really stopping him from gripping the end of his lasso. He could break the boy's neck with a flick of his wrist. It would be painless - a merciful death in fact. It was more mercy than the boy deserved. Hadn't he after all tried to capture and kill Erik this very night?

But Erik resisted the urge to take the matter into his own hands. He closed his eyes for a moment, absorbing the silence surrounding them before Christine decided all of their fates. As the silence grew, voices filled his head.

"_Kill the boy_"

"_You can make her love you_"

"_This is wrong_"

"_Take her_"

"_She would rather let him die than be with you_"

"_Murderer_"

"_You're a monster_"

Then, a voice cut through all the others: it was her, right behind him. He lifted his head as he heard her pure, magnificent voice silence the demons in his head; she was the only one who could. "Pitiful creature of darkness, what kind of life have you known? God, give me courage to show you, you are not alone." With a forceful hand on his shoulder, she turned him around, and he went willingly. He gasped as she pulled his head down to hers and let her lips touch his own. A kiss - his first - a gift like no other he'd ever received. He stood frozen as her lips slated over his - hers strong and soft against his own weak and rough - her hands caressing his face, touching his disgusting deformity like it wasn't there, until the skin on the rest of his body burned with longing for the same touch. He stood as frozen, only his flailing arms behind her moving, and looked astonished at the woman who was accepting him in more ways than he could've imagined.

Without warning she broke away from his lips, but he barely mourned the loss of them before her arms enveloped him in a crushing embrace. His body shook; his mind reeled as her frail form leaned into him, her hard breathing aligning with his as if they'd both run a hundred kilometres. He lifted a trembling hand to his lips, still feeling the ghost of her sacrifice; it would haunt him forever. 

Just as he realized she might accept it if he returned her embrace, she pulled back and looked at him. A tear trailed down her left cheek before she smiled, closed her eyes and leaned in to grace him with another kiss. This time she wrapped her arms around his neck, impossibly managing to thrust their bodies even closer together. His eyes closed as well, unwillingly as he didn't want to miss any part of this miraculous moment, but he quickly understood that the deprivation of his vision enhanced the sensation of her pillowy lips. His entire being flared to life; hesitantly, he began to move his distorted mouth against hers, inexperienced and unsure. She hummed lightly before ending the kiss.

She pulled back in silence, waiting for him. He couldn't meet her eyes. She'd chosen him, hadn't she? Then why did this feel so painful? He turned away from her, pacing for a moment as he planned his next move. The mob was after him and would be here soon.

With swift steps he walked up to the boy still hanging by the lasso. A lovely shade of purple had settled on the boy's lips. Erik heard Christine cry out behind him, but ignored her, and lifted a flame to the lasso above the struggling man, letting it burn through until the Vicomte fell to the floor with a thump. He quickly untied the lasso from his throat and moved it to bind the other man's wrists behind his back - an easy task as the boy was too weak and confused to struggle. 

Erik gripped the Vicomte's arm tightly and pulled him to his feet, then taking Christine's arm with his other hand. He tugged them both towards the hidden door in the cave wall. "Erik, where are you taking us?" Christine cried as she struggled to follow his long strides, but not resisting. He stopped in front of blank wall, letting go of Christine for a moment as he reached for the hidden latch to the door. He enjoyed her gasp of surprise and wonderment as the wall broke into two. He pushed the boy forward through the entrance, then held his free hand out for her. She took it, to his glee, without hesitating and followed him down the hall. He pushed the lever on the wall with his elbow for the door to close behind them.

He stopped in front of the Louis Philippe room, opened the door and gently pushed her inside, following right behind her. He let go from the Vicomte who fell in a heap on the hallway floor; he paid him no mind. He swiftly lit a few candles, so Christine could see the room he'd decorated for her. He could feel her amazement as she took it in. "This is all for you, Christine, my living bride." He walked over to open the door to the bathroom, fully equipped with running water and a water heater. Her eyes widened in surprise.

Behind her, Erik saw that the Vicomte was finally beginning to gather his wits. "I will give you a tour of the rest of the house later, my sweet, but for now I must get monsieur le Vicomte settled in as well. I'll be back in an hour." With that he walked out of the room, Christine trying to follow, as he closed the door and locked it. He hit the boy's face with an elbow to weaken him again, then pulled him further down the hall.

Taking the hidden exit in his small pantry in the kitchen, he led the Vicomte through his dark passageways to the dungeon. The boy started to scream for help at some point, forcing Erik to gag him. Otherwise, it all went quickly without any fuss. He chained up the pathetic man before hurrying back to his bride who was probably anxious after being left alone. 

He found her already by the door as he unlocked it, ready to pester him with questions. "Where is he? Did you hurt him?" She was furious, yet still frightened of him. Even after she'd kissed him! 

"I took him to his cell. He will remain there until I'm certain you will fulfil your promise to be my wife." He was careful to keep his voice neutral and calm when he was anything but; she could still change her mind. Women's minds could be fickle - that he had read - which was one of the reasons he'd kept the Vicomte. 

When she didn't answer him immediately, confirming that she would be marrying him, he grew despondent, and when she finally opened her mouth to speak, he found that he couldn't bear her rejection now. "I believe it is time for bed, my dear." He quickly interjected before she'd let out a word. "It's been a long and trying day. We will have our wedding tomorrow." _When I find out how to do it_, he added in his own mind. While he'd planned to marry her for months and had managed to obtain the necessary papers, they still needed to post bans and arrange it with a priest. 

Erik reached for the door handle to close the door and leave Christine to herself, but she held it in a steel grip. "Am I your prisoner, Erik?" Her hands left the door and started to twist into her outer skirts which had become quite filthy. He looked her over, realizing that the dress had dirt, grime and even a little blood on it. She couldn't get married in this! His mind started to flicker through his options of procuring her a dress if they were to marry tomorrow until he heard Christine clear her throat. 

He vaguely remembered her question about her being his prisoner. He did not want to call her that and suddenly realized that he didn't have to. She couldn't find her way out of the catacombs, even if she managed to find her way out of the house and across the lake. She wasn't his prisoner as such, but she was trapped. "Of course not, my dear, " he said, and pulled the door closed before she would ask any more questions. However, in a sign of good faith, he didn't lock the door. 

His body felt exhausted after having been on high alert all night, but he knew that he wouldn't be able to sleep. Not while she was there, not while the mob still roamed his catacombs. Instead, he went into the kitchen for a cup of tea for his sore throat; briefly he wondered if he should offer one to Christine, but decided to let her be. She needed a good night's sleep. He took his tea into his bedroom where he kept his sewing equipment. Luckily, he still had some fabrics kept there that could be used to make a new bodice and outer skirts for Christine's wedding gown. He figured that these were the only things that needed replacement; the rest of the gown must have been spared. 

For a moment, after he'd gathered the needed things on his desk in front of him, he let his eyes fall closed and enjoy that Christine - his bride - was in the next room. It was a dream come true, even though it had been necessary to force her hand. 

The future was bright. He'd never felt that way before, but with her by his side, he would be able to have a real life. He felt the tension of the evening begin to leave his body completely; instead, he was filled with the warm feeling of love. Love was incredibly painful, but it also filled him to the brink with happiness. Would it feel as good to be loved in return, he wondered? One day he would find out. These thoughts and fantasies about their future lulled Erik into a deep sleep in a cocoon of white tulle, silk and lace.

* * *

He was awoken by a loud screeching sound from one of his own inventions; it was an alert that someone had triggered one of his traps. He quickly donned a mask and decided to check on Christine before heading into the tunnels. She was probably still sleeping, but he wanted to make sure that she hadn't been bothered by the alarm. 

He had barely left his bedroom before he knew something was wrong. He didn't have to open the door to her room to see that she was gone. How had it happened? Had someone gotten into his house, avoiding his traps, and escaped with her? Or had she...? At the thought he immediately ran towards his pantry where the trapdoor to the passageways was left wide open. He must've forgotten to close it in his haste to get to her! 

He heard it before he saw it: the gentle creak of a swinging rope. How many times had he heard that sound in his life and why did it never fill him with dread as it did now?

The trap was simple: when a loose stone on the ground was pressed, it would open a hole wide enough for a person to fall through. He'd timed it perfectly, so the release of the loose stone also triggered a noose that would slip and tighten around the victim's neck during the fall. If the pressure around the throat combined with the fall didn't break the neck, the person would be strangled in a matter of minutes. Usually, he found more joy in theatrical traps that kept the victims alive for longer, but if someone got as close to his house as this passageway was, he'd rather have them killed immediately.

He didn't want to look down the hole, but he had no choice. Even as the scent of rosewater met his sensitive sense of smell, he had to know. And cut her down - bury her. His breath hitched as he saw the rope lead down to a full head of chestnut colored curls, and in a fit of panic he fell to the ground where the hole was, grabbed the rope and heaved the small woman up from her grave, quickly slashing the rope as if it would save her. It mattered not because her neck had broken when she fell. The look on her face was one of surprise and terror. Her expressive eyes - those he'd always struggled to capture in a sketch - red from crying and now frozen in an eternal horrific gaze. Her plump lips, that had granted him not one, but two kisses only hours before, slightly parted as if she'd tried to capture one last breath. Her fine long neck now marred by a perverse discoloration from the rope; it might as well have been his own fingerprints on her skin.

It was his fault she was dead. He hauled her limp body into his lap as he sat back against the damp cave wall and crushed her tightly into his chest. He ripped off his mask and buried his face in her soft curls as the voices in his head grew louder.

"_You killed her"_

_"Murderer__!_"

"_You're a monster_"

But suddenly a voice - her voice - cut through the noise, silencing the screaming in his head. "Pitiful creature of darkness," she sang. "What kind of life have you known?" He turned around in confusion - suddenly standing, his face free of her hair - and saw her sad eyes drilling into him; her face a picture of compassion as she reluctantly neared him as one would a wild animal. They were back in his main room, by his throne, with a struggling Vicomte hanging from his lasso. What was happening? 

His body was trembling and his mind reeled, flicking between the clear picture of Christine's dead body to the living woman in front of him. He was barely aware when she reached for him; only when her soft lips touched him, did he know that this was real. The first time had felt real too, but it must've been a dream or vision of sorts. This was a déjà vu, as Emile Boirac had called it - a sensation of having experienced something before - but that did not make this moment less real. 

He closed his eyes and relished the feeling of her, alive and finally deciding to submit to him. He relaxed as she embraced him and though he wasn't comfortable returning it, he leaned his head into her curls. However, the smell of rosewater made him draw away from her, reminding him too much of his vision. She responded by kissing him once more, and he had to put his hands on her shoulders to make sure that she was real.

When the kiss ended, he was afraid to look at her. What if he saw her dead eyes once more like the end of his vision? So he sprang into action before he even heard the voices from the mob. He would make sure that she stayed with him, no matter the cost. In his vision she'd tried to get away from him or perhaps tried to go to the Vicomte. This time he would eliminate both those options.

Leaving the boy to strangle himself, he pulled Christine to the cave wall and triggered the hidden latch, quickly getting away from the main room and the dying Vicomte. She struggled against him, but it was no use; he easily dragged her into the hallway and to her room where he swiftly locked the door behind them. As he lit the candles around the room, he noticed her looking for a weapon; naturally, this was useless since he had thought to eliminate that option when he designed the room for her. When Christine realized this, she turned to him, standing rigid and ready to defend herself if needed. "Is this the part when you force yourself on me?" She hissed at him, holding back her tears. "I did not kiss you as a sign that I give myself freely to you! Isn't enough for you to know that Raoul is moments away from his death?" She was shaking all over and suddenly her knees buckled under her and she fell to the floor in a heap of silk and lace.

"My Christine," he whispered as he hurried to her side to take her in his arms, but she lifted her hands to signal that he should keep his distance. He couldn't see her face - it was hidden by her thick hair - but he knew that she was silently weeping. She was allowed to mourn the boy - at least there wasn't much he could do about that - but she should know that she was safe here with him. "I will never force myself on you, not even when we're married. I want you to give yourself to me freely like you did with your kiss." No matter how he ached to be kissed again and more, he wanted it to be from love. And she had kissed him twice - four times if he counted his vision - so he felt certain that there was a chance for her to love him. She cared for him at least.

"You think I will ever touch you again after you've killed Raoul?" Her voice was small, but confident nonetheless. She lifted her head and gazed at him with defiant, hateful eyes and he looked away. "Whatever chance you had at my love dies with him," she said; it was a threat. 

Rage and despair filled his mind until he could barely hear or see. He lunged at her, gripping her tightly to make her understand how her callous words affected him. She was the only chance he had left to be loved, to be wanted, and she couldn't take that away from him. His long fingers wrapped around her arm - or was it her throat? - as he shook her, begged her to love him. He felt her fingers claw at him; it almost felt comforting because it was the only sort of touch he'd known in his life: violent and desperate. But it wasn't what he wanted, not from her. He wanted what she had given the boy and what she had briefly given him when she'd kissed him. He wanted love and desire, not any more hate and revulsion. Surely, she could see that.

She finally seemed to calm down and he loosened his grip on her. The world came back to him with its sharp colors and the noise of hard breathing that filled the room. Christine slumped against him and he let go of her neck to catch her. That's when he noticed the marks he'd left on her. "Oh Christine, I'm such a beast. It wasn't my intention to hurt you." She said nothing; she did not breathe! 

He carried her to the bed and found the smelling salt he'd stashed in her nightstand, bringing it to her nose. But he dropped the little bottle when he was met with her dead stare: bloodshot eyes looked at him accusingly, binding him with its blame and agony. He could not look away, but beneath her face he perceived the violent handprints he'd left on her porcelain skin.

"No," he whispered in horror. It was just like his vision, only worse: This time his own two hands had squeezed the life from her.

He turned from her and ran out the bedroom door, down the dark hallway. It seemed to go on forever, an endless darkness before him. He stopped for a moment to catch his breath, fighting the tears that blurred his vision. "_Murderer__!_" Voices screamed from all around him, closing in on him until he felt like he was the one suffocating. 

A light seemed to emerge out of the corner of his eye and it was as if he could breathe again. Then he heard her: "Pitiful creature of darkness..." It was her, singing to him again! "What kind of life have you known?" It couldn't be! He turned around to face her - alive and breathing - coming towards him in a white gown, the one he'd made for her, with compassion in her eyes. "God, give me courage to show you, you are not alone!" She reached for him, but he was in panic as he relived the familiar scene, and pushed her to the side. She hit his throne with a sickening thump before landing on top of the discarded mannequin. All was quiet for a moment. Then blood began to gush out from under Christine's head. 

"Christine!" The boy cried, useless in his noose. He did nothing for her! Erik was the one who ran to her, who lifted her limp body into his arms once more. This time blood stained his clothes. "Oh God, what have you done?" The Vicomte screamed in anguish, but it was nothing against the despair filling Erik's heart. He'd killed her again! "You monster! Oh, my poor Christine..." The boy fought against his restraints as he flung words at Erik; they were nothing new to him. "You killed her! Murderer!" Above them the mob was yelling the same. "Murderer! _Murderer__!_" Erik forced his eyes shut, trying to comprehend what was happening.

When the voices finally silenced, it was only to be replaced with another: "Pitiful creature of darkness." He opened his eyes in alarm, whirling around - suddenly standing again - and saw Christine coming towards him once more. "What kind of life have you known?" He caught her wrists before she could continue, before she could touch him.

"What is this madness, Christine?" He shouted, startling them all. "How are you doing this? You were dead!" She struggled against his hold, shaking her head in fear and confusion, saying words he didn't register. Behind her, the Vicomte began to scream at him to let her go and not hurt her. The boy had a point. Erik had to calm down and figure this out before he hurt her again. But she had to stay still. He dragged her to the portcullis where he fastened her already bruised wrists to the metal; he cringed at the sight of the darkened flesh - so like his handprints around her neck. 

"Angel, what is happening to you?" She cried, not fighting his handling of her anymore. Instead, she glared at him with wary, bewildered eyes, but at least she was alive! He didn't dare to look at her, lest he hurt her again. After he'd bound her tightly against the bars, he walked over to his throne and sat down. He had to think, had to understand what was happening. He was clearly reliving the same situation over and over, but why? And why did he keep killing Christine?

While Christine kept quiet, the Vicomte wouldn't shut up. He was yelling at him to let Christine go, that she didn't deserve any of this. Erik didn't disagree, but he couldn't think with the damn noise. He turned towards the hanging man to demand that he keep quiet, accidentally pushing the lever to the portcullis with his elbow. The portcullis began to go up, pulling Christine along with it; she cried out in shock. He hurried to pull the lever back, but it had gotten stuck. Even as he rose from the throne and pulled it with all his might, the lever stayed where it was. Christine was getting closer to the hole where the portcullis disappeared into, now screaming in fear, along with the boy.

Erik ran to her, catching her right leg in one hand and the portcullis in another, and pulled to stop it, but the mechanism - two thick chains towing the heavy port upwards - was too powerful. Without looking he heard the moment when her bound hands were squeezed into the too narrow hole, and warm blood soaked him from above. Screams and pained cries filled his ears and he felt Christine's foot wriggle in his hold until the slick blood caused it to slip out of his hand. He stopped breathing when her cries ended; he didn't dare look up. The chains were still pulling the metal gate up, but all he could hear was his pulse pounding in his head, the blood filling his ears. "Murderer! Oh God, why?" Erik heard the boy cry before he fainted.

* * *

When he regained consciousness again, he was unsure if he was distressed or relieved. Christine was singing to him which meant she was alive and hadn't suffered a horrific death, but she was singing too familiar words, nearing him from behind. He shook violently, still hearing her screaming in his head, still feeling her blood upon his skin. He turned around and held his hand over her mouth to quiet her, unable to bear any sound from her at the moment. However, the action only riled up the damned Vicomte who was watching their every move. "How dare you? I demand you remove your hand from her and let her speak her word!" He yelled from his spot in the Punjab Lasso.

Every step of the way that damned boy had mocked Erik - shouted and yelled at him - possibly causing him to act irrationally. Well, that ended now. 

Erik let Christine go - he saw her stagger and was instantly ready to catch her, but she found her footing - and strode over to his organ where the lasso was tied to the side. With a hard tug of the rope, the boy lifted briefly from the ground as his neck broke with a loud snap. Christine shrieked when she realized what had happened. Erik let go of the rope and the Vicomte's corpse flopped uselessly to the ground. 

Erik walked back to Christine, ready to comfort the grieving woman and unsurprised when she attacked him with her fists pounding his chest. He coerced her body backwards towards the throne where he could retrieve her veil - ignoring her fighting - until she suddenly reached for his face. He'd learned the hard way to be ready to strike if someone went for his face, and heedlessly he pushed her away with such force that she fell back. He tried to reach out for her hand to save her, but it was already too late. She landed on the frame of the broken mirror, where the mannequin usually stood; her breath audibly left her lungs when the glass pierced her chest. All that followed after was silence.

He barely had time to gasp what had gone wrong. He knew what would happen; in a few moments the scene would start over. 

Sure enough, it was only seconds before he heard her sweet voice again, as if she'd risen from the dead - clean of blood, with beating heart in her chest - singing to him with a compassion he was unworthy of. He was unable to handle this seemingly endless circle of causing Christine's death. Was this truly Hell? If he had imagined it to be anything like this, he would've sought absolution from every religion possible! 

Christine gripped his shoulders to turn him around, but before she could pull him towards her - to kiss him! as if he deserved such a thing! - he decided to get them both out of there, somewhere safe where she couldn't be harmed. He carefully took hold of her lower arm, trailing her along behind him as he walked to the cave wall. "Erik, wha-? Raoul!" She called out to the boy who - for once - kept silent. To calm her, Erik took a candle and burned the rope holding her fiancé, leaving him to struggle for breath on the ground. This distracted her long enough for Erik to open the cave door to the hallway and guide her inside before she protested. He led her to her bedroom, this time only lighting the candles before locking her inside the room, safe from his wrath. 

"Stay there, Christine." He called out to her. "Everything you need are in the closet or the bathroom. I'll leave you be. You're safe now." She _was_ safe now, he was certain of it. If he could keep her alive, he wouldn't have to relive this horrible nightmare. 

Exhausted, he dragged himself to his own bedroom where he flopped down in front of his pipe organ. It was his favorite - built into the very cave - before he'd decided to create a complete house down here. Originally, he'd just wanted the essentials: a room for his belongings, a water closet, a small kitchen and a proper pipe organ like the one from the church in the town he'd been born in. But soon, he'd felt a need for a regular house, even down in these damp catacombs. It had proven to be especially necessary when he'd met Christine. He hadn't expected her to immediately become his wife, and though it was the way things would be from hereon after, the way their relationship had turned out proved the need for a second bedroom. Right now, he was glad for the privacy of his own bedroom as his main room was occupied by the Vicomte and possibly a mob. No one would find them here and he could keep away from Christine, so she wouldn't get hurt. 

The events of the last hours (or was it even days? To Christine it must only have felt as minutes) came down on him and his mind seemed to collapse in on itself. Tears flowed from his eyes as he saw Christine's lifeless body before him - again and again. His handprints on her neck, her blood on his skin, her empty eyes staring at him... His cursed hands moved over his organ's keyboard, finally letting out the sorrow and helplessness he felt until he eventually passed out on the ivory keys.

* * *

When he woke, he'd no concept of how long he'd slept and despite the fact that the clock on his wall told him that it was 7 o'clock in the evening, he was certain he'd slept more than the day away. At once he remembered that Christine was just down the hall and he hurried to find a mask to put on. 

When he came to Christine's door, he knocked tentatively, waiting for her to answer, but when no response came after knocking two times, he unlocked and entered carefully. The sight that met him was unexpected and yet not: on the bed was Christine, covered in a duvet, looking lovely as ever; if it hadn't been for the blank and slightly bloated expression on her face, he would've been sure that she was merely sleeping. He felt a sharp pain in his heart, knowing that he'd somehow caused her death again, but he was unsure of how and knew he had to find out. 

When he lifted the duvet from her stiff shape, he realized that she was still wearing the undergarments he'd provided for her wedding outfit. His sense of morality told him to look away, but his eyes were immediately drawn to her legs that looked almost burned under the stockings. He'd seen wounds like that before - though not as pronounced - which had been caused by an allergic reaction. It seemed that something as simple as his choice of stockings had led to her death.

It was only moments after this realization that he felt the lighting around him change and heard her voice resonating in his ears: "Pitiful creature of darkness..." and wasn't that exactly what he was? Pitiful, made of darkness. And the life he knew now consisted of reliving the death of the only person he'd ever loved. 

* * *

He discovered after several cycles that letting the Vicomte go was the best way to keep Christine with him. If he killed the boy, Christine would grow angry and attack Erik or hurt herself, often committing suicide. When he'd tried to lock the boy up, she'd tried to escape and find him which usually ended with her falling into a trap, a tunnel caving in on her or even rats attacking and killing her. Therefore, he began releasing the Vicomte as soon as he could before leading Christine away.

But staying in his house proved to be dangerous as well for the poor woman, even though he tried to take repressions every time. He watched helplessly as her long chestnut hair got caught in his homemade ventilator and she was scalped before his very eyes. He was quick to turn off the ventilation system off after that, but it made her try and escape through the ventilation shafts. He thought for days that she'd succeeded, and he had gone above to search for her, torturing and eventually killing the boy to get him to reveal her whereabouts. Then her bloated body washed up on the shore of his underground lake. He sealed the ventilation shafts every time after that. 

One time she ended up catching on fire on one of his many candles; he switched to gaslights in his whole house. But with his ventilation system closed off, this proved to be deadly to her as the gas began to leak and suffocated her while he was in the main room cleaning up after the mob. He tried switching to electricity, but when Christine was electrocuted only hours after installing it, he decided to stick to candles and keep a bucket of water ready in every room.

He figured that if he managed to keep Christine alive, the endless torture would end. He didn't have any other choice than to keep trying. And every time he managed to keep her alive longer than before. However, this made it even more painful when she died in a horrible accident. Like when he helped her lace her corset and, forgetting his strength, did it so tightly that her spine broke. Or when she slipped and fell when stepping on Ayesha's coughed-up hairball. 

He got to spend much time with her in-between her deaths and despite the awkward situation of her having been forced to be there and him waiting for her inevitable demise, they enjoyed their time together. They would talk, read and play together; the time went by quickly and he wished for it never to end. But every time it did and it gutted him. 

Sometimes her deaths would be violent and quick, like when one of the pipes on his organ dislodged and bludgeoned her, or when the water heater malfunctioned and boiled her alive. Other times it would be slow and excruciating as it was when he had given her an insufficient amount of shawls, so she'd caught a nasty cold and withered away before his very eyes. A few times it was directly his doing - unused as he was to living with someone else. He'd strangled her after she'd woken him on the couch, stabbed her when she'd stealthy walked into the kitchens, and even accidentally caused her to overdose after he'd slipped morphine into her drink instead of his own (as he had increased his use of opiates to soothe his tattered nerves). 

It seemed as if there was no end to the ways she could lose her life, and he began to fear the dreaded song and the compassion she aimed at him whenever a new cycle started. It came to a point where he couldn't bear to hear her voice anymore, fearing that it was the sign that he'd lost her once again.

He began to give up hope, letting the safety of his home slide because it felt useless to even try. When she died after he'd said "no" too loudly to her, causing her to have a heart attack, he decided that he'd had enough. 

* * *

In the new cycle he just cut down the boy, took Christine to his house and let her roam free. He spent his time with her as he wished and didn't deny her anything. He even let her use knives in the kitchen, perhaps secretly hoping that she would use them on him (because he had tried to do himself in, without luck). 

To his surprise several months passed without incidents. While he had to forbid her to sing, they found much to do together, even cooking and reading in quiet company. She smiled more and more at him, and he longed to return those smiles. But he was too scared to hope, knowing that Death would find her.

And He did. It started with a minor injury when Ayesha had accidentally walked over the pipe organ and frightened herself. She'd jumped into Christine's arms, unintentionally scratching her arm. Christine had laughed at the scene and found his attentions to the small wound unnecessary, but despite his best attempts to make it heal properly, she developed tissue necrosis and it wasn't before long that her blood got infected. Her body temperature dropped, despite having a high fever, and she couldn't keep any food down. He brought her to a doctor, but there was nothing to be done. Towards the end he spent every moment at her side, comforting her the best he could when she was awake. He gave her morphine against the pain, but she didn't want him to aid her unavoidable demise. "The more time I get with you, the better." she told him. This was when he ultimately broke down.

"Oh Christine, I can't do it," he wept into the palm of her hand, the very hand that still wore his ring. She'd never taken it off. "I can't bear to lose you again."

She leaned forward in her bed to kiss his deformed cheek, using a considerable amount of her meager strength. "Sometimes, loving someone means letting them go." He lifted his eyes to hers and saw the acceptance of her fate in her eyes. He'd never been able to accept his own fate. Instead, he'd spent his life fighting against the world, only to end up in a dark sewer with a prisoner for a wife. He had felt entitled to a real house and a real wife, even if he couldn't come by these things like normal people with hard-earned money and a regular courtship. 

He realized that, unlike him, Christine had never felt like she was entitled to anything. While she'd lost both her parents at a young age, she'd never felt that God or the universe owed her something for her misery. Instead, she'd done her best to show the rest of the world the love and compassion she desperately wanted herself. And that was what she had given him. It was time he returned it.

He pondered her words as she drifted off to sleep. And when her body seized and she at last drew her last breath, he accepted it. Because he didn't want her to be in pain anymore. It was then he knew what he had to do. 

\-----

For the first time in months - or perhaps years - he embraced her words as she sang to him, breathing them in as her warmth and courage drew her nearer to him. "Pitiful creature of darkness, what kind of life have you known?" The kind of life he'd known had been filled with suffering, but nothing like the kind of torture he'd experienced when reliving the love of his life dying. And it had been his own fault the whole time. His selfishness had caused both of their demises. But it was over now.

"God, give me courage to show you, you are not alone." She turned him around and pulled him down for a kiss - the first kiss he'd let himself have since one of her first deaths. He couldn't keep count of it anymore, but none of it mattered because he would enjoy this; he would take what little love she gave him freely. His hands touched her biceps lightly, feeling the strength underneath the silk of the wedding gown he'd designed for her, believing that it was the best for her when it only had been for his own sake. He let her hands slide over every distorted inch of skin, knowing that it was her way of accepting him. Even if she wasn't actually choosing him. Because she had never chosen him.

She pulled from the kiss to embrace him and he dared to reach up to carefully touch her beautiful brown locks of hair. Suddenly, her lips were upon him again - her arms around his neck - and it was only then he realized that while the first kiss had been to show him kindness and affection, this second kiss was for herself. She was kissing him one more time, knowing that it would be the last kiss they'd share. He kissed her back, trying to convey to her that he finally understood. He understood everything.

When they separated, they stayed only inches apart. He felt the inclination to take her away again - to fight for a life with her one more time - but as he looked into her large brown eyes, her words echoed in his mind: "Sometimes, loving someone means letting them go." And that's what he would do. 

He turned away from the beautiful woman, who would live a long and happy life without him, and strode over to the Vicomte. With a candle, he burned through the rope like he'd done many times before, walking away the moment the boy fell to the floor. He felt weak, unable to trust himself to let her go. "Take her, forget all of this." He forced the words out, looking away from the two lovers. "Leave me alone, forget all you've seen. Go now, don't let them find you." He gestured to the entrance where the gondola was waiting by the lake. "Take the boat. Swear to me, never to tell," his voice wavered, pained by the truth of the words he spoke. "the secret you know of the angel in Hell."

When he saw Christine standing still, despite her fiancé's best attempts at getting her to leave, he gathered the last of his strength. "Go now! Go now, and leave me!" 

Finally, the couple fled and he was left in his little, hollow lair. Suddenly, his music box with the little monkey started to play; he found himself drawn to it and the music that it played for him. "Masquerade, paper faces on parade... Masquerade, hide your face so the world will never find you." He wept against the fancy Persian monkey he'd so carefully crafted years ago, somehow knowing that he would have it for years to come. Unlike Christine...

Christine! He felt her presence and turned around to find her there. She was standing before him, looking more beautiful than ever, and for a moment he imagined her standing before him like that at their wedding. But the look in her eyes betrayed the vision he longed to see; she was heartbroken. He rose from the ground and walked over to her, noticing that she was sliding his ring off her finger. And he knew that this was the last time; because through all the cycles where he'd seen her die again and again, she'd never taken off that ring before now. He held his hand for her to give it back; to his surprise she took his hand in hers and placed it carefully in his palm, closing his fingers around it. 

He whispered his love for her, more true than she would ever know, and she cried as she looked into his eyes, letting him know that she believed him.

And then she left him, finally allowed to live the life she deserved to. 

**Author's Note:**

> Some of these death were inspired by this post of _Things women in literature have died from_: https://maze-zen.tumblr.com/post/188047763506/pagesofangels-gahdamnpunk-mmmf  
Honorable mention to Emmy Rossum who allegedly was allergic to the stockings used in the first lair in the 2004 movie.  
Thank you to the lewd ladies of the lair for their assistance!


End file.
